Page 12 of A Curse of Hope and Shadows: Part I
“It’s been known to happen.”
He stepped out from behind the screen, still shirtless. The human part of his torso was thin and wiry, too skinny for someone of his position who should have had as many solid meals a day as he could stomach. She looked at his plate and realised he hadn't eaten much of his breakfast. Most of his meals were sent back half eaten, come to think of it.
“I require assistance,” he said. “My arm is stiff. Likely because of how terribly rough you were with me.”
“I’m sorry, My Lord, I didn’t realise how delicate you were. I’ll be more gentle next time.”
She eased the shirt from his grip and held it over his head, waiting for him to duck under it like one of her brothers would. He didn’t. She was used to helping people dress, but they weren’t usually taller than her, and their gazes weren’t so fixed and unreadable.
He was right about looking older than his years, although whether or not that was the curse or something else, she couldn’t be sure. He certainly didn’t talk like a child either, despite his moments of acting like it occasionally.
But then, she hadn’t felt like a child for a long time, either.
She went up on tiptoe to loop the shirt over his head, and tugged it over his shoulders.
“Arms,” she commanded.
He lifted his right easily, but the left didn’t rise above his chest.
“I can’t,” he said.
Carefully, gently, Adeline took his wrist and brought the sleeve down to it, posting the limb through. She wriggled the shirt into place and smoothed it down over his damp skin, pulling the drawstrings.
“Your arm,” she said, “is it always so stiff?”
He gave her a lopsided shrug. “It comes and goes—”
“Have you tried—”
“Don’t,” he said.
“Don’t what?”
“Try to fix me. People have tried everything.”
“Of course,” Adeline said, for once biting her lip out of shame rather than to stifle a retort.
He shrugged away from her. “Get the chessboard out.”
“I should clean the bath—”
“Fine. Do that then.”
He went to lounge on the chaise, back to her, dark side pressed into the shadows of the room. She hummed a tune as she rinsed, cleaned and tidied, dispersing the gloom emanating from the corner.
“Your voice,” he started.
“What about it?”
“It is not unpleasant.”
She smiled. “A joke and almost a compliment in one day. Whatever next? A smile?”
“Doubtful,” he said. “The board is in the top drawer of the dresser, when you’re done.”
She dried her hands and fetched the board as instructed, setting it up on a table by the window. He ought to have something fancier than a wooden board similar to the one she learnt on, frayed and worn at the edges. The pieces were prettily carved from marble, but even those were rubbed smooth in places.
The Young Lord slumped into the seat opposite, setting up the black pieces on his side of the board.
